


Death and the Raven

by amonitrate



Series: Stateless [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: You know, I knew Alexa was dying, every moment we were together, everywhere we went, I knew, and yet, when she finally closed her eyes, I was surprised.He'd made it clear yesterday that he wanted to be left alone, but he couldn't have really expected her to listen to him.  He knew her better than that.





	Death and the Raven

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written circa 2006.

_The circles of the stormy moon_  
_Slide westward toward the River Plate,_  
 _Death and the Raven drift above_  
 _And Sweeney guards the horned gate._  
\- T.S. Eliot  
  
Amanda skipped down the stone stairs, humming as she went. A ditty in a minor key - she couldn't quite recall the words. Or the century when she'd first heard it. Immortal memory could be so annoying. This particular song had been stuck in her head for going on a year. If only she could remember the words. Methos would know. Methos was a treasure trove of random trivia. He reveled in it. Maybe the challenge would pull him out of the grumpy funk he'd fallen into after the funeral. He'd made it clear yesterday that he wanted to be left alone, but he couldn't have really expected her to listen to him. He knew her better than that.  
  
Amanda shivered as she emerged from the dark tunnel of Methos' 'secret' staircase. Electric light burned dimly from a bare bulb in the center of the room, the only intrusion of the twentieth century she could see. Since he had electricity he could have at least set up a space heater to combat the chilly damp.  
  
Methos sat on the floor, facing away from her. A wrinkled overcoat was his only concession to the wintry chill. How macho of him. Or maybe he hadn't noticed the cold. Amanda opened her mouth to harass him about it but nothing came out. Instead she gaped at him and nearly laughed aloud.  
  
What the hell was he doing?  
  
Methos turned a disinterested glare on her then resumed his…work. He sat cross-legged on the grey stone floor, a dark wooden saint looming over his shoulder. Joseph - or was it John - stared down at Methos with a protective half smile. A weirdly paternal expression bestowed on a man who was ancient when the saint was a babe. The saint's silent approval gave the scene a surreal disconnect.  
  
At first she thought Methos was meditating, but his posture was bent and too uncomfortable. Dark drifts of fluff were scattered in a sparse semi circle around him. He raised a dagger to the crown of his head and hacked away a short length of his hair. She blinked in disbelief.  
  
"Uh, Methos," Amanda swallowed a giggle. "What are you doing?"  
  
A small handful of hair fluttered to the floor. "What does it look like?" He muttered.

He hadn't gotten very far and for that she was grateful. His remaining hair stuck up in sad, uneven tufts. What was he thinking? Had he been assaulted by a crazed hedge trimmer? What had possessed him to give himself an impromptu haircut… and what was with the dagger? Amanda couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up this time.

"Remind me to tell you about this new business craze," she said. "You actually pay someone to cut your hair for you. Can you imagine a sillier idea?"

"Amanda," Methos groused. "What do you want?"  
  
She ignored him and perched on the room's sole chair. Rickety and wooden, of course. Wouldn't want to spoil the décor with a solid piece of furniture. Methos went back to mutilating his hair. He sawed off another small clump and let it fall. At this rate the task would take him the rest of the day.  
  
"You know, that would be a lot easier with a mirror," Endlessly helpful-yup, that was her. "Not to mention scissors."  
  
"Didn't have scissors."  
  
Ookay. So he couldn't go get a pair? This was weird, even for Methos. Amanda rummaged in her tote bag and let out a triumphant cry. With a flourish she whipped out a sleek pair of shears. Methos paused and looked at her directly for the first time since she arrived.  
  
"You carry scissors in your purse?" His voice was incredulous, though he didn't look too surprised.  
  
"A girl's gotta be prepared." She shrugged.  
  
He held out his hand for the scissors. She smiled at him until he dropped his hand.  
  
"Okay. What do you want for them?" He sighed. A tad melodramatic, in her opinion.  
  
"Really, sweetie. I'm hurt," she giggled. "I can't stand by and watch you give yourself a monk's tonsure. Unless that's the look you're going for?"  
  
Methos rubbed his face and hefted the dagger.  
  
"I was doing fine before you got here," he said. A sullen, overtired child, five times her age.  
  
"Methos," she said. "Scoot over here."  
  
He shot her a dubious frown and she shook her head in exasperation. He was going to make everything difficult today, if she let him. As stubborn as MacLeod in his own way.  
  
"I'm not about to behead you with a pair of barber's shears," she said. "Now get over here."  
  
Methos crabwalked to her chair and settled between her legs with his back to her lap. A show of trust of a sort. She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to pull her sword on him now that his neck was so vulnerable. He wouldn't find it funny.  
  
"How short do you want it?"  
  
He stirred. She repositioned his head with a gentle touch to his cheek.  
  
"I was going to take it all off," he answered. He sounded odd. Embarrassed.  
  
"Why?" She frowned in distaste. "I hate to tell you this, but bald would not be a good look on you. Not with that nose."  
  
The kidding comment fell flat. He was oblivious to humor today.  
  
"It needed cut," he said. "I just…"  
  
His voice faltered and he pulled away from her touch. Amanda laid a hand on his shoulder. He was tense - a rigidity that didn't show to look at him. He rolled the dagger between his hands. The dagger bothered her. Surely he could have found a more practical tool for a haircut. A memory bobbed up and then sank again before she could snag it. It was clear she'd interrupted him. Interrupted something private. He hadn't made a move to kick her out yet, though. That counted for something.  
  
"You want me to cut it all off?" she asked finally.  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"No," he laughed without mirth. "You're right about the nose. Just… whatever you think's best."  
  
Amanda smoothed down Methos' disheveled hair and he slumped back against her. His hair had grown out since he left for Geneva. Thick and floppy, but not quite as long as when she'd run into him during the Kalas fiasco. She hadn't recognized him then.  
  
_MacLeod ushered her onto the barge after Kalas' escape, uncharacteristically apprehensive about something. An Immortal had been inside, but MacLeod knew he'd be there. MacLeod introduced her to 'Adam Pierson', concealing his true identity with comical restraint._  
  
_Amanda stared at the gawky, thrift store-clad kid draped over MacLeod's sofa, certain she'd met him before. The kid stared back with an open, guileless curiosity, touched with just the right amount of awe at meeting a legendary older Immortal. If not for the disconcerting resonance of his presence Amanda would have dismissed him as one of MacLeod's young pals. MacLeod picked up baby Immortals like burrs on wool. Then the kid smiled at her. A too knowing, secretive smile - willfully mysterious._  
  
_"You old goat!" she squealed and jumped into his lap._  
  
_Amanda had never quite seen a more perfect illustration of flabbergasted. MacLeod gaped at them. Like he'd thought keeping Methos' identity from her would earn him a merit badge from the old Immortal. Fat chance._  
  
_"Where have you been? I looked for you in Damascus but you were gone when I got there!" This had been hundreds of years before, but it still pissed her off. She hated being stood up. Of course, she'd run into MacLeod instead - with infamous results._  
  
_Methos tilted his head back and peered up at MacLeod. Then he smiled._  
  
_"Yeah, well I had to leave rather… suddenly," he said, laconic as ever. "You know how it is."_  
  
_Amanda threw her arms around Methos' neck and kissed him. Thoroughly. MacLeod shifted uncomfortably. Methos' smile - after she'd finished with him - was edged with a faint echo of the wicked humor she remembered him best for._  
  
_"But where have you been? I was sure you were dead. When Rebecca died-"_  
  
_Methos' smile faded and he glanced away._  
  
_"I'm sorry about Rebekah," he said. He always pronounced her name with an accent she couldn't emulate no matter how hard she tried._  
  
_"You should have been there. She was your-"_  
  
_"I know," Methos interrupted. He shot another unreadable glance at MacLeod. "I couldn't make it."_  
  
_He didn't offer an excuse or a hint as to where he'd been. She'd learned over the years not to expect one. MacLeod frowned thoughtfully. There was a wariness in Methos' eyes that told her not to push him in front of MacLeod. He'd always been cagey, even with his friends. And she didn't know how much he'd told MacLeod about himself. Apparently not much, if he hadn't mentioned knowing her. Or Rebecca. Only later, after she'd seen the blue tattoo on Methos' wrist, had she begun to understand._  
  
Methos shifted under her hands and Amanda blinked. She'd let her memories interrupt her barbering. She ran her hands through his hair, massaging his scalp. He sighed and relaxed against her shins.  
  
"Guess you haven't had time for a haircut," she said with inane randomness.  
  
"Hmm."  
  
His eyes were closed. Had he slept at all since he got back to Paris? A soft blanket of silence drifted over them, punctuated by the snip of her shears. When was the last time she'd cut another person's hair? It used to be routine, like darning socks. She hadn't realized she missed it. Missed the comfortable intimacy. Adults rarely touched one another any more. Not like this, casual and without the expectation of violence or sex.  
  
"Methos?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Tell me about her?"  
  
Methos shifted again. He didn't ask whom she meant.  
  
"What do you want to know?"  
  
Amanda turned his head gently to the right. It gave her access to the hair there - and let her see his face.  
  
"What was she like?"  
  
Methos shook his head, pulling hair from her fingers.  
  
"Keep still," she scolded.  
  
"Yes mom," he muttered.  
  
He seemed at a loss as to how to answer her question. Maybe Alexa's presence loomed too huge in his mind to reduce to words. Start small, she reminded herself. Give him something simple to focus on.  
  
"What was her favorite color?" Small indeed. Was that the best she could do?  
  
"Blue," Methos answered without hesitation. "I think that's why she loved Thira. Uh…Santorini. The blue sky, the water, the domes of the buildings…"  
  
His voice trailed off and his eyes unfocused. Seeing Alexa in the past, whole and happy on the beach of a Greek isle. Sunlight filled his face. A rare, joyful smile flickered there and then washed away.  
  
"She bought a dress at the market," he continued. "The color of the Mediterranean. It was just a sundress but she wore it like a queen."  
  
"She wore it for you," Amanda guessed. She'd done the same, caught up in the headiness of love. She'd done so for MacLeod many times.  
  
Methos shook his head.  
  
"She wore it for herself," he said, "She lived with cancer for two years. She wanted to feel beautiful again. She didn't know she already was."  
  
"You gave her that," Amanda brushed loose hair from the back of his neck. "You gave her beauty back to her."  
  
Methos squirmed, disturbed either by her touch or her words. Probably the latter. He concealed his own kindness like he thought it was a personality flaw. Yeah. One of the seven deadly sins, up there with gluttony and sloth. Traits he proudly admitted to. Contrary bastard.  
  
"It doesn't matter who she wore it for then," he said. "She's wearing it now."  
  
He pulled away abruptly and climbed to his feet. His half-trimmed hair gave him a comical lop-sided look but the urge to laugh didn't come this time. Not when his eyes were so dark and bleak.  
  
"I'll be right back," he said tightly.  
  
Before she could say anything he disappeared up the stairs to the bookstore. Amanda swept the cut hair from her lap. He wasn't away long. Within ten minutes his footsteps echoed in the stairwell to announce his return. He sank back into his place at her feet without a word. His hair was ruffled again, like he'd run his hands through it. She smoothed it down and didn't comment. The fabric of his collar and the soft hair at the nape of his neck were damp. There must be a washroom up in the bookstore. He let her manipulate his head into position, silent and docile.  
  
"Rebecca cut her hair off once," Amanda said.  
  
She turned his head to the left. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy but his face was dry. She hoped he'd gone upstairs to cry. He'd been wound so tight at the funeral. A nice long sob would do him good.  
  
"I thought she'd lost her mind," Amanda continued when he didn't say anything. "A girl she'd raised died in childbirth. Rebecca tried everything but the baby died too."  
  
Methos didn't respond but she could tell he was listening.  
  
"She covered all the mirrors. I was furious. I was a vain little thing back then. Not like today."  
  
Methos snorted delicately. Amanda glanced around the cellar room. No mirrors. She'd have to check the bookstore and the washroom. If he owned any mirrors would she find them covered?  
  
"There was so much about Rebecca I didn't understand," she finished. "She was the oldest Immortal woman I've met. And the wisest."  
  
Methos blinked, frowning. What had she said?  
  
"Wisest by far," he said. "But not the oldest."  
  
Amanda thought he'd elaborate, spin her a story, but he just sunk back into silence. When she'd finished he still looked like some sort of penitent. Nothing she could do about that. It was more his mood than the haircut - which, at least, was even now. She brushed the snips of hair from his back and lay her palms along his shoulders. His head fell forward. She gave him a gentle squeeze. Maybe she could ease some of the coiled tension. The silence went brittle around them, then he moved out from under her touch.  
  
"Don't."  
  
Amanda swallowed. "Why not?"  
  
"Just - don't. Please." He didn't turn around.  
  
"Okay." She rose and swept the hair from her skirt.  
  
The scissors went back into her purse. Methos didn't move. She didn't see a broom, so she started to scoop up the scraps with her hands.  
  
"You don't have to do that," he said, voice soft and empty. "I'll clean up."  
  
"Methos-"  
  
He stood up and turned to her. The raw pain in his eyes took her breath. He smiled. It didn't make her feel any better.  
  
"Thank you. I just... I need some time."  
  
She nodded. She wanted to hug him.  
  
He wasn't ready for comfort. Instead she grabbed her purse and left him behind, knowing it was the only thing she could do.

* * *


End file.
